


Wait

by TheBlackMagister



Category: Escape the Fate
Genre: Anal Fingering, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Not like super explicit but eh, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory, Post-Coital Cuddling, Recreational Drug Use, dub-con, i am band trash once again lol, luv me band relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 21:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5142410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackMagister/pseuds/TheBlackMagister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>guess whos fucking back with more band filth to spew<br/>on another note kevin is ??? so sweet ???</p>
    </blockquote>





	Wait

**Author's Note:**

> guess whos fucking back with more band filth to spew  
> on another note kevin is ??? so sweet ???

Craig hadn't imagined he could possibly get sweatier than playing a show, in the South, in the summer. 

Now, he decides, laying naked in a pile of bodies and blankets, a joint held lazily between two fingers, this is the sweatiest and dirtiest he's ever been. He has to admit, sex is the greatest stress reliever on tour. Although they'd had a hard time convincing him to agree to fuck the new guy, Max; he'd been nervous about letting somebody new in.  Eventually they'd had to tie him down to keep him still long enough to go through with it. And, yeah, it had been great in the end. His boyfriends had cooed softly into his ear, kissing his neck and touching him gently to coax him into relaxing.

Still.. it's times like these where he's the only one awake when he's most vulnerable, when his mind starts working too fast for comfort. He misses _his_ Max - his best friend. Even though he's well aware Max doesn't miss him. Not even the weed in his hand can make _that_ ache go away. And fuck; he's tried to defend himself against the pain with short blows and snark against the bassist but it doesn't fucking work. He still hurts. 

He needs a drink. 

Careful not to disturb his sleeping bandmates he shifts out from under the sheets and gets up. His hips pop when he puts weight on them, he grunts softly, _shit_. Next time they fuck the night before a show he needs to be careful, he decides, padding into the on-bus kitchen. He pulls open the fridge door, regretting his choice of rough sex only a few hours previous. Damn - no alcohol. He frowns at the water bottles, he could've sworn he put a 6 pack in the fridge not long ago-

"You were drinking too much again."

Robert's voice makes him jump and he bites his lip to stop from swearing. Well - loudly. He still mutters "Fuck" under his breath as he relaxes, turns and shifts to lean against the counter. It's hard to stay mad at the drummer's concerned expression and he's pretty sure if he looks at it he's going to cave. He exhales, thumbs the lock on the window, "I can't help it."

"What's been up with you lately?" The question is blunt but gentle. He inhales, exhales, he doesn't want to tell Robert but - but they've been close for so long, been through so much together. He moves from the lock to his nails, picking uncertainly at them.

"I miss him," He mutters, and when Robert tenses he tacks on, "Max. I.. I don't know. It doesn't feel right. I miss when it was you and me and Max and M-" He falters, "Monte and now look - it's just you and me left. I'm not trying to shittalk the other guys, don't get me wrong, but.. it's not the same."

Robert moves up behind him, hands resting on his hips, the taller man's breath warm on his bare shoulder. "I know," Robert murmurs. "Me too. But we've still got each other."

"I know," Craig repeats vaguely, watching the dark street outside before it blurs and he blinks and god damn it, he's crying. Robert doesn't need to ask why, just wraps both arms around his waist and nuzzles his neck. He shifts to bury his face in the black tank-top and, having hidden his face, allows himself to break down for the first time in a while. Robert rubs his back, croons soft, sweet nothings in his ear, strokes his hair.

"He's working with  _him_ ," Craig spits the words and his voice is rough and shaking, "Max - he's doing a collab - with - with - goddamnit-" The words die in his throat. He can hardly even think about Monte without cringing. He knows he has to accept what happened, has to accept that he isn't deluded, he isn't misinterpreting - Monte drugged him and raped him in a hotel room in Vegas. His ex-boyfriend is his rapist, his abuser. And nobody knows it but Robert. He knows he has to face it but God he wants to disappear every time he goes back to it. Robert kisses the top of his head and he's pulled out of his thoughts by a gentle hand on his back.

"Max doesn't know," The drummer says gently. "When it happened he was high all the time, and by the time he sobered up-"

"I couldn't talk about it." Craig swallows. "B-but - I - he - if - G-god - fuck-"

Another wave of despair crashes over him and he's back to sobbing into Robert's chest. Gently Robert lifts him onto the counter, cradles his head and reminds him it's not his fault, it never was and never will be. It doesn't take as long for him to calm down this time before the tears stop, although he's not entirely sure if he's  calming down or if there's no water left in his body for him to cry. Robert seems to read his mind, retrieves one of the handy-dandy bottles of water and opens it for him. He's shaking so badly he can barely drink from it.

"Monte's going to make Max hate me," Craig blurts out, slamming the bottle down, knuckles white with his grip on it and he's lucky he hasn't crushed the bottle yet.

"What makes you think that?" Robert prompts. He's still got his arms around Craig's body, thumbs rubbing circles on his lower back. Craig shrugs half-heartedly.

"I mean.. Max already hates me, I think. And you know, Rob, you know as well as I do that Monte's going to fucking twist the story and it'll be all my fucking fault and-"

"Craig," Robert cuts him off gently. "Max doesn't hate you, baby. I promise you that. Max is smart enough to not mindlessly trust Monte."

Craig's impulse control and reactions are so fucked up, good God, and he realizes this when instead of making himself continue the conversation he pulls Robert down and crashes their lips together. Robert sighs although it's debatable whether or not it's out of exasperation; regardless the drummer kisses him back, one hand moving up to run through his hair. He wants, needs, to forget and he'll be damned if he doesn't find a way. It's alright that there's no alcohol, damnit, he'll find the next best thing: an orgasm.

"Babe," Robert mutters but Craig cuts him off with a pathetic whimper.

"Don't," Craig's voice cracks, "Please."

Robert exhales, pushes forward and kisses him again. They're both hyper-aware they're going to have to talk it out at some point but Craig's so, so not ready to face it. He just wants to sit on this counter and make out with his boyfriend and forget about - everything that's not either of those things.

He starts as his legs are parted, sudden pressure giving way in his lower abdomen, and gasps against Robert's mouth. A strangled " _fuck_ " rises in his throat, tumbles out as a vague mumble as he leans against the wall, lets one leg wrap loosely around Robert's waist. Robert kisses the exposed skin of his neck, leaving bruises and love bites, and the pressure doubles and Craig has to grit his teeth to stifle a moan. He can feel every callous on Robert's fingers and aw, fuck, he's still sensitive from an hour previous. All he can do is let out breathy, muffled moans and whimpers, hips rocking.

"Good," Robert purrs against his jaw, strokes his side. "Good boy.."

Craig arches off the countertop, whining low in his chest, lips parting, face flushed, letting the stimulation overwhelm him. Robert coos softly in his ear as he finishes, body stiff, gripping the edges of the counter. He's tired but pleased with this; maybe now he can get some actual sleep. The pressure is gone and he feels empty and it's not unusual to feel. He holds out his arms and Robert picks him up, and he whispers "private" into the drummer's tanned skin. Robert hums, carries him into the bunks and lays him down in one, curls tight around him. He's tucked in between the wall and Robert's body and where sometimes the position would bring on claustrophobia, now he just feels safe and sleepy.

When the sun rises in the morning and finds them curled up against one another he's sleepily, vaguely aware that it's going to have to be soon that he tells the guys, about Monte, about everything. But damn, he decides, receiving sleepy morning kisses from his boyfriends, it's not  _that_ important. Certainly not important enough to ruin a nice morning of coffee and, if he's lucky, lazy cuddling.

Fuck it. It can wait.


End file.
